


Concupiscence

by Greenlikethesky



Category: The Terror (TV 2018), The Terror - Dan Simmons
Genre: AU: Everybody lives!, Anal Sex, Devious seduction, Far too fluffy for this fandom, M/M, Religious Guilt, Tent Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-18
Updated: 2019-06-18
Packaged: 2020-05-14 09:00:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19270000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Greenlikethesky/pseuds/Greenlikethesky
Summary: Lieutenant John Irving awakens in a strange tent some time after his encounter with the band of Inuit. He has no recollection of how he came to be there. And he is not alone.





	Concupiscence

**Author's Note:**

> Concupiscence (noun, formal): strong sexual desire; lust.

* * *

 

John floats back up to consciousness.  

 

He's warm. Warmer than he has been for years. 

 

_Why is that_?  

 

The tide of sleep rolls back further. He realises that he's naked. Naked and warm. The warmth comes mostly from the furs wrapped around him, but also from the body that lies pressed against him. 

 

_That's odd._

 

His head still swims with sleep, but he tries to surface. Memories begin to trickle back. He remembers his wretched situation. He is Lieutenant John Irving of HMS Terror. He is stuck, with the rest... with the  _remainder_  of the crew, on a godforsaken stretch of frozen rocks, with miserable fog, a dwindling supply of contaminated food and a monster stalking their every step. 

 

There is a strange feeling in his abdomen, something he is unused to. It takes John a moment to realise it is the absence of hunger. Someone has fed him. Someone has fed him good food. 

 

The feeling of a full belly spurs John's memory further. He remembers hope. His encounter with the small band of Netsilik. Their help. The food they had shared with him. His mind sharpens like a spyglass on that moment. He had started back from the Inuit in triumph to find... Mr Hickey? Yes, there is an image in his mind of the caulker's mate waiting alone on the hillside for him. Mr Farr had been meant to accompany them too, but John had ordered him back to Terror Camp not long after they had set out. The man could barely walk. John remembers starting back up the hill, seeing Hickey in the distance and then... nothing. There is a blank space where the rest of the memory should be. 

 

What has happened? It feels like hours have passed. Maybe more than that. What day is it now, and what time? Most importantly, how did he come to be here, naked and sharing warm furs with some mysterious partner?  

 

John opens his eyes. 

 

He is surrounded by canvas walls, but quite different to those of his Royal Navy standard issue tent. The walls are made of hide, with careful neat stitching that makes them far more secure than the draughty thin material that makes up the ramshackle tents of Terror Camp. It's an Inuit home he's in, of that he's sure. The animal furs he lies swaddled in are similar to those he has seen Lady Silence wear, and the thick salt smell of seal meat permeates the air of the tent. 

 

The body behind him moves and John understands then that his bedmate is male. The feel of a unmistakably hard cock presses tight against the cleft of his arse. The pleasant warmth he had enjoyed under the blankets transforms to unbearable, sub-tropical heat in an instant. John feels his face grow scarlet. Is it one of the Eskimo behind him? He dares not look. 

 

The man stirs further. The body feels too slight to be one of the stocky Inuit that he remembers.  _Please God_ , John prays,  _please don't let it be..._  

 

An arm wraps around John. A hand comes to rest on John's lower belly. 

 

John notices, dreamlike, that he is himself fully, undeniably, hard. His cock bobs against his stomach. The hand _(whose hand?_ ) is agonizingly close to touching him. John can barely breathe.  

 

This is wrong. This is sinful. He must pray for deliverance from the weakness of his flesh. He casts around for a prayer to distract himself. 

 

_The Lord is my shepherd_...  

 

John's mind is blank for a moment. He wills himself to concentrate. 

 

_I shall not want_... 

 

He can hear his own blood pumping through his ears. 

 

_He maketh me..._  

 

There is a quarter inch of space that separates strange fingers from gently brushing his aching cock. 

 

_To lie down..._  

 

He cannot stop himself. He groans. At once there is hot breath against his ear.  

 

"Shh, love. They're not far away."

 

As he feared and surely knew, it's Hickey. Hickey is naked against him. Hickey's manhood is firm between his arse cheeks. 

 

Horror burns through him like scalding water. He should spring away, restrain the devil of a caulker's mate for this insubordination, this disgusting display.  _He should_... 

 

But his own body is betraying him. Underneath the horror he feels there is need too, a need as primal as the land they're in. John is frozen. He prays for absolution, for divine intervention. He would like nothing more than for the beast to attack the tent right now, good lord it's never around when you need it, it could be sort of a  _deus ex ursina,_  which is of course terrible Latin, or Greek, and anyway not funny at all and  _Dear God_  he wants so much to push back into the warmth behind him. 

 

He bites a knuckle. He makes an admission in his own mind. A confession. 

 

He  _wants_  this. 

 

He's wanted it since he stumbled across Hickey and Gibson below decks those many months ago. He had cornered the man not long after, given some garbled speech about watercolour painting and climbing exercises and God knows what else, more for his own sake than Hickey's, all the time pleading with his eyes for Hickey to understand what he truly wanted. 

 

His desire for the man had worsened after he watched Hickey's punishment. The sight of him, pale and slender, bent naked over a table, had left John so aroused at the time that he felt light-headed. In the privacy of his bunk for most nights since, he had worked himself to climax just from that image. Afterwards he would pray for forgiveness. 

 

Only afterwards. 

 

He has no memory to inform him of how they have ended up like this, naked together under native furs. The blank in his mind is unsettling, but John finds he doesn't much care at present. He knows if Hickey touches him he cannot offer any resistance. 

 

Deliberately, so there can be no mistaking what's he's doing and so there is plenty of time for John to stop it, Hickey closes the space. He reaches with one hand to grasp John's weeping cock, while pressing the other gently over John's mouth.  

 

John lets him. 

 

Hickey strokes him deftly, swirling the wetness that leaks from him with his thumb and working it down his length, so John is slick in his hand. 

 

Hickey is no novice to this. John knew that in the abstract and now in the definite. The sensation of those long clever fingers around him is very heaven. His stroking is insistent and measured. His hand makes a firm circle of friction around John. It feels fucking incredible. 

 

"God, Hickey," he gasps against Hickey's fingers, but is hushed again. 

 

"We're not alone. Quietly." He murmurs into John's ear, and begins to kiss his neck, lapping at the sensitive skin below John's ear like it's made of honey. 

 

The sensations are growing too much. John feels the tingling beginning in his balls, in the space under his stomach, and he wants to cry in frustration at the thought that this will be over so quickly. 

 

Hickey can tell (of course he can), and begins to work him faster, at the same time thrusting against his bare ass. John throws his head back, a dog in heat, and feels the irresistible fire spread out from his groin. He bucks his hips, once, twice, and submits. He shoots his seed over Hickey's hand and his own stomach, hips frantically thrusting. He swallows the moan threatening to burst from his mouth. 

 

After a moment he comes to rest. 

 

"I'm... I'm sorry" He pants. 

 

If there is still a moment to end this, to retreat with some kind of plausible deniability, John knows this is it. He needs only to speak the words.  _Mr Hickey,_ he will say,  _how dare you. You forget yourself. I was half asleep, not in my right mind. You have disgraced yourself. I shall detain you, and whipping will be the least of your worries._

 

Any moment now, he'll say it. 

 

"What for?" Hickey pulls at his hip, and rolls John onto his back. They see each other eye to eye for the first time. 

 

John can't say it.  

 

Hickey looks divine. His red-gold hair spills, dishevelled, over azure eyes that John has imagined so many times. There are patches of bright pink spreading across his pale cheeks. John wants very much to kiss him. 

 

"I don't normally... so fast." John says instead, blushing. 

 

Hickey cocks his head, wicked insolence in his eyes. "How long do you normally take, Lieutenant?" 

 

John pulls Hickey down to him, meets his hot mouth with his own. John opens his mouth and feels Hickey's tongue slide against his. The slighter man clambers in between John's legs, pushing them apart so he can grind his still-hard prick against John. Hickey breaks the kiss for a moment. 

 

"The Captain is here, by the way, so try not to cry aloud."

 

"What?" John is bewildered. "Mr Hickey, where are we? How long have I been asleep?" 

 

Hickey chuckles. " _Mr Hickey_." He imitates. "You're such a proper gent. Should I still call you  _sir_?" 

 

John's cock stirs again at Hickey's words. For some reason, which he does not wish to examine closely, the idea of Hickey calling him 'sir' while they are in such a situation makes him throb. 

 

"Yes. Please." He whispers. 

 

"Yes, sir." Hickey smiles like a serpent. "You've been drifting in and out for a day or so,  _sir_." He punctuates every 'sir' with a thrust. John can scarcely believe it, but he's growing hard again.  

 

"You... tripped, sir. Hit your head on a rock." There is something suspect in Hickey's eyes as he says this, but John is too distracted to pay much mind. 

 

"I brought you down to the Eskies. They took us in, fed us. They sleep naked for warmth." He grins wolfishly. "Insisted we do the same, sir." 

 

That explains that. "Wh- when did the Captain get here? How did they find us?" John gasps as Hickey teases their cocks together. 

 

"Search party arrived this afternoon. Crozier can speak their lingo. They're negotiating at the moment. I left them to it." Hickey kisses his neck again. "I felt obliged to check on you, sir." 

 

John feels heat flood through him. "Thank you." 

 

Hickey does not answer. Instead, he pulls away abruptly, and kneels over John. He leans and reaches beyond the furs for something John can't see. When he returns, John catches a glimpse of his hand, coated with something slick. 

 

"Seal oil." Hickey whispers with a tilt of an eyebrow. "They use it for all sorts. Probably not this, though."  

 

John watches as Hickey kneels and massages it along his length. John, inexperienced though he is in these matters, has a vague understanding of where this is going and he begins to tremble with the thought of it, whether from fear or desire he is unsure. 

 

Hickey notices. "Do you want this, sir?"  

 

_God save me_ , John thinks.  

 

He nods. 

 

Hickey reaches down in between them. John feels an oil-coated finger press against his threshold. Slowly, Hickey slides it inside of him. 

 

_Jesus Christ_. 

 

This is the most aroused he's ever been in his life. He spreads his legs wide apart for Hickey like a maid. John is glad he's already come once, because if he hadn't, he knows he would be undone again right now. 

 

Hickey works at him with his fingers for what can only be minutes, but feels like an eternity of paradise to John. His hands tangle in the furs, in Hickey's hair. He is  _aching_ , aching for release again. 

 

Hickey withdraws, and the void it leaves in John causes him to whimper. Hickey grins. He manoeuvres himself so the head of his cock teases against John's entrance. 

 

"Give the order, sir." 

 

The breath catches in John's throat. "Please." He whispers desperately. 

 

"Please what?" 

 

John meets Hickey's gaze. For the first time he can see no shadow of art or cunning in the other man's eyes. His face only conveys an open, naked need to match John's own.  

 

"Please take me, Mr Hickey." John says, softly. 

 

"Yes, sir."  

 

Hickey pushes inside of him, slowly, but without hesitation, until he is buried to the hilt. 

 

John sees  _stars_.  

 

They don't move for a moment, but stay fused together, panting like dogs. When John recovers a little of his faculties, he pulls Hickey down to him, so they can kiss once more. 

 

As their tongues meet, Hickey begins to move, slowly, inside him. John's moan of ecstasy is lost in Hickey's mouth. 

 

Hickey is rolling into him like a tide. John can no longer think. The universe has shrunk to this tent, their intertwined bodies, the feel of Hickey inside of him. John prays for it to never end. 

 

He has to tell Hickey the truth. 

 

"Cornelius." He whispers. Hickey looks up at the use of his Christian name. His eyes are black with desire. 

 

"I've wanted this for so long." He confesses. "I pretended I didn't. I-" 

 

"Shh" Hickey interrupts.  

 

"Did you know?" 

 

A twist of Hickey's mouth. "I thought you despised me, sir." 

 

John shakes his head. "No. The opposite." 

 

Hickey's hips are moving faster. "We could have been doing this a long time ago if I'd known, Lieutenant." There is a glimpse of the old facetiousness in his eyes. 

 

John shakes his head. "This is perfect." 

 

Hickey looks at him for a moment, before giving him an unexpectedly chaste kiss. The irony makes John smile, when compared to what the rest of their bodies are doing. 

 

Hickey's own smile grows impish. He whispers into John's ear. "Get on your hands and knees,  _sir_." 

 

"Yes, Mr Hickey." He feels himself swell with desire at being ordered about so, and submitting so willingly. 

 

Hickey pulls out of him and John rolls over, unashamedly eager. Hickey grabs hold of his waist with one hand and pushes John's shoulders down with the other. Hickey buries himself inside again. 

 

There is nothing slow about their coupling now. Their bodies smack together, a sea storm crashing against rock. Hickey's fingernails are sure to leave marks where they dig into his hips. They must be making enough noise to raise the dead, John thinks, but he cannot stop. He prays again, prays with every fibre of his soul, for this to never end. He is beatified. 

 

Behind him, Hickey is reaching his crescendo. He reaches for John, takes him in hand and strokes twice and John is spent. Bliss overwhelms him as it flows through him once more; the feeling of lightning in his veins, of fire made liquid. He is drowning in it. His legs and arms shake, barely supporting him. 

 

Hickey surges into him one final time and John feels the other man's release within him. 

 

They collapse forward together. For a moment there is only the ragged sound of their breathing. 

 

"Jesus buggering  _fuck_." Hickey sounds almost winded. 

 

The blasphemy only makes John laugh feebly. Hickey rolls off him, onto his back, still panting. 

 

"Sorry to say that all the watercolours in the world aren't going to top that, Lieutenant." 

 

"John." 

 

A smile breaks over Hickey's face, illuminating it like an arctic dawn. "John." He repeats. 

 

He reaches and pulls John to him, a lean arm snaked around his collarbone. 

 

"I s'pose the captain'll want to see you." 

 

John nods. "I'll just... rest here a moment." He has serious doubts as to whether he will be able to move again. 

 

He lies back against Hickey, cradled by the smaller man, and stares at the canvas above them. Hickey is curled like a cat behind him. His whiskers tickle John's shoulder. 

 

John casts around for the name for what he feels. He is warm, his belly full of good food. With help from the Netsilik, there is hope for the future. For all of their futures. He can still feel the receding waves of his climax gently rippling through his abdomen and along his legs. 

 

_God_ , he thinks,  _it's happiness_. He feels happy. It must be years since he felt this content, this untroubled. Has he ever? He never thought he'd feel such bliss again, least of all here, in the desolation at the end of the world, with Cornelius Hickey beside him. 

 

He has to ask, though. 

 

"Cornelius?" 

 

"Mm?" 

 

"Did I really trip? On the ridge?" 

 

There is a pause. 

 

"Sort of." 

 

John is content to leave it at that.  _Amen_. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! I have been tinkering with this since August 2018. I'm still not entirely happy, but it's time to let go... I have a few more chapters written from Hickey's POV but I'm content for this to stand alone for now.


End file.
